


if it all goes crashing into the sea

by heartunsettledsoul



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, bughead - Freeform, in which the author uses a zillion aus in one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 01:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: “This has been surprisingly fun,” he smiles. “I’ve had a really great time.”“Me too,” Betty replies softly. “I’ll miss you guys.”She kisses his cheek in the parking lot before they part ways, each wishing the other luck. When Jughead gets home, he finds the faint outline of her lipstick on his skin.or, five times Betty and Jughead were ships passing in the night, and one time they weren’t.





	if it all goes crashing into the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveleee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleee/gifts).



 

_Like ships in the night_  
_You keep passing me by_  
_Just wasting time_  
_Trying to prove who’s right_  
_And if it all goes crashing into the sea_  
_If it's just you and me_  
_Trying to find the light_

\- Ships in the Night, Mat Kearney

* * *

“Arch, you know I love you, but you have _got_ to let me help you decorate this place.”

Jughead hears, rather than sees, his roommate’s childhood friend arrive in their entryway.

For as much as he’s learned about the saintly Betty Cooper, she’s never come to visit in the three years since Jughead answered Archie’s “room for rent. newly renovated kitchen. preferably male. must not mind semi-constant guitar playing.” ad on Craigslist.

( _Semi_ -constant was a bold faced lie. But Archie had an Xbox and a functioning air conditioning unit and it was August in Manhattan. Who was Jughead to look a gift horse in the mouth?)

As told via Archie, Betty is always off saving the world or uncovering the truth or writing the next great American novel. Which is to say that Archie must not have the best grasp on what exactly his best friend does for a living. All Jughead knows today is that Betty had a layover at JFK and a brewing snowstorm meant her connecting flight to Chicago is cancelled.

So now she’s crashing on their couch.

She certainly doesn’t _look_ like the crashing on the couch type. When Jughead emerges from his room to say hello, he’s taken aback to see that Betty Cooper apparently travels in heels and a tailored blazer. He can’t remember the last time that he looked that put together, let alone the last time he travelled wearing anything other than sweatpants.

“I’ll have you know,” Jughead starts, interrupting Betty’s tirade on how sterile it looks to have blank walls. “We did have _some_ things hanging out here but _someone_ thinks Hitchcock movie posters will scare off the girls he brings home.”

“I stand by the fact that the poster for _The Birds_ is too creepy to have over head when hooking up.”

“Maybe don’t have sex on our couch so often then, Arch.”

“Oh good,” Betty deadpans. “Really excited to sleep on the couch now.”

Archie seems to remember himself and ushers Betty further into their apartment, ducking behind her to throw a punch that Jughead swiftly evades. “Betty this is Jughead. Jughead, Betty.”

Betty pauses to shake his hand and he’s struck by the way her smile lights up her whole face. She’s beautiful in a way no one who’s just been on an airplane should be, with carefully applied pink lipstick and a very uniformed ponytail.

She’s not quite what Jughead imagined after hearing Archie’s stories. But when Jughead whispers conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, I have extra sheets,” and she snorts in laughter, he decides she’s even better than what he’s heard.

Jughead busies himself with ordering takeout for all of them while Betty and Archie exchange life updates—him on the new album contract he’s been negotiating, Betty on something about her sister and then about her mysterious job—and by the time Betty returns to the living room, she looks like a new person.

More in jest than anything else, Jughead has pointedly laid out one of their many flannel blankets across the cushions of the couch. When Betty giggles and settles in tentatively, Jughead finally has a chance to take in her appearance beyond the heels and lipstick.

The ponytail remains, though loosened, and she’s changed into pajama pants he is pretty sure are printed with ice cream cones and a worn RIVERDALE BULLDOGS long-sleeved shirt he recognizes as Archie’s.

(With an inexplicable pang in his gut, Jughead wonders if Archie and Betty were, for lack of a better term, a _thing._ Or had been. Or might be in the future. She did say she’s sleeping on the couch but there is a particular kind of intimacy in borrowing someone’s clothes.)

“Couldn’t pass on the nostalgia,” Betty chirps when she catches Jughead eyeing the shirt. He feels a bit like a jackass but after years of growing up together and being as close as Archie insinuates they are, there’s no way the pair of them haven’t been asked about their relationship a hundred times over.  

He settles for answering with a noncommittal, “You look more comfortable at least.” and relishes in the way a faint blush crawls up her cheeks.

“I don’t usually look like Corporate Barbie, especially not when I’m travelling. I was supposed to get off the plane in Chicago and head straight to a conference but that clearly didn’t happen.”

Jughead, surprisingly himself, gives a blatant surveyal of her body and says, “You know I think you could have nailed it in the ice cream cone pajamas, power suit be damned.”

Betty rolls her eyes, plucks a stray stress ball off the coffee table, and throws it squarely at Jughead. “Those in plaid covered houses with blank walls should not throw stones, Jughead Jones.” She gestures at the blanket she’s sitting on, the plaid armchair Jughead is lounging in, and then the worn flannel tied around his waist.

Damn. She’s feisty.

(Jughead likes it. A lot.)

Archie eventually joins them with a handful of beers and they do a hefty amount of damage to the veritable buffet Jughead ordered while watching movies and partaking in one of Jughead’s favorite pastimes—ragging on Archie. Throughout the night, he discovers that Betty’s job is actually as a media director for a women’s health nonprofit; Archie grins proudly when she explains the ins and out of it to them and Jughead lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Damn, Cooper. Corporate Barbie is cool as shit.”

She chucks the stress ball at him again.

Jughead is more than mildly infatuated with her by the time Archie goes to bed and Betty is nodding off into her second beer.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” Jughead says, gently nudging her shoulder to get her attention.

When she smiles apologetically, Jughead’s stomach flips flops.

“Next time,” Betty yawns, “maybe we can talk Archie into a Hitchcock movie over something from the Marvel universe. Given enough planning, our collective influence might pay off.”

He thinks he mumbles some sort of platitude in response, doing his best to quell the small bubble of excitement swelling up inside his chest. If she’s only managed to visit Archie, her lifelong best friend, once in the last few years, Jughead doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of anything developing with Betty. And that’s even if someone as whip smart and talented and kind as Betty Cooper would take a chance on _him._

But still. He falls asleep thinking of blonde ponytails.

He wakes up to his extra flannel sheets and blankets folded neatly in a pile, smelling faintly of whatever kind of fruity shampoo Betty uses.

On the coffee table, clearly smoothed out from its crumpled form, is a coupon to Bed Bath and Beyond. Stuck to it is a note from one Betty Cooper:

_J & A - Caught an early flight out, sorry I couldn’t say goodbye but I didn’t dare wake up sleeping beauties. Buy some damn throw pillows. Much love, B. _

* * *

It’s one of those teasingly warm days just on the cusp of winter’s goodbye; the air still has a bite to it but the sun is shining hard enough that the slight chill is easy enough to ignore while in its light. Betty, indulging in her favorite end-of-winter traditions, goes for a drive in her beat-up Jeep with all the windows down, blasting pop music she associates with spring more than the dreary gray of winter.

The fresh air seems to revive her, dusting the cobwebs from the recesses of her mind and allowing her to breathe easier. Winter tends to weigh heaviest on Betty, the shortened days full of nothing but dark nights making her thoughts sluggish and the skin of her palms itch for something sharper than her own nails.

She’s humming along to the chorus of a Taylor Swift song when something in her periphery catches her eye.

A motorcycle and its driver are pulled over to the side of the winding road. Even at a distance, Betty can read the situation. The bike broke down and the driver is _pissed._

She slows to a crawl and pulls up behind who she can now see to be a guy her age, with heartthrob hair and a very tight leather jacket. Somewhat self-consciously, she turns the dial down on the stereo, cutting off the last moments of _Style_ to call out to the man.

“You okay?”

(It occurs to her that as a woman alone in her car, she is making a categorically stupid decision in choosing to be alone on an empty road with a man she doesn’t know. A man whose leather jacket, she now realizes, bears the insignia of the local gang.)

His expression softens when she hops out of the car—pepper spray clutched firmly in her manicured hand—and that bolsters her confidence. She figures he can’t be _all_ bad if his reaction to a blonde in a ponytail and a pink sweater offering to help with his bike is positive rather than skeptical.

“Not sure _okay_ is the phrase I’d use,” he grumbles, kicking at one tire. “Ancient piece of shit.”

Betty can’t help but smile despite the man’s irritation.

“Don’t insult her,” she chastises, surprising herself by flashing a wink at him. “That’s what a …’95 Harley Sportster? She’s old but not a piece of shit.”

Now his jaw drops. “It’s a ‘97 actually, but damn that was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard from someone wearing pink.” Betty flushes, breaking the man’s intense stare. “Ostensibly, the bike was a grand gesture hand-me-down from my dad. Until I realized he sucked at maintenance. I’ve sunk a disgusting amount of money into this thing.”

“When’s the last time you had a tune-up?” she asks.

He runs his hand through his hair, looking sheepish. Betty watches the way his fingers wind around the messy locks and finds herself wanting to weave her own fingers through them.

“Before the winter, so this one is all my fault. I just couldn’t resist the weather, going for a first ride is my favorite tradition.”

A kindred spirit, Betty thinks. A really, really _attractive_ kindred spirit. Who finds her gearhead tendencies hot. She gestures back toward her own vehicle. “Trust me, I get the feeling. Some of my tools are in the back, do you want me to check if it’s anything I can fix quickly for you?”

“Yeah, alright.” He answers her slowly, letting his gaze drag down her body just as leisurely. When he catches himself in the act, he clears his throat and Betty can see the tips of his ears go red.

With a quirk of her eyebrow at him, blushing but not altogether put off by his egregious ogling, Betty spins on her heel to retrieve her toolbox. She allows herself an extra moment to straighten herself out—loosening her ponytail slightly, adjusting the scoop neck of her sweater to hit lower than the natural cut—and to ogle the man right back.

He’s turned to rest against the seat of his bike, tapping away at his phone, and she can see that he does in fact have a Southside Serpents jacket on. If she thinks hard, she vaguely remembers seeing him around town with other members her age. She tends to only notice the ones causing a ruckus; they’ll peel through quiet neighborhoods on their bikes, get in shouting matches in the parking lots of bars, hit on her and her friends in a far more off-putting manner than this guy is.

In this particular case, Betty thinks, relative anonymity is a good sign.

When she returns to examine the engine, he is staring resolutely at a piece of gravel just to the left of his back wheel.

“Didn’t mean to be such a jackass and leer at you. It appears my fellow jackass friends are rubbing off on me.”

Betty smiles to herself, happy she was correct in her brief assumption of character.

“I leered back, so I’d say we’re even.”

He chuckles, then leans in curiously to watch what she’s doing. After a few minutes of poking around, Betty tightens a few final bolts and then stands up to dust her hands off on her jeans.

“You should be good enough to get back to your garage, but you’re in dire need of a new engine filter.” Betty tries to hold herself with purpose as she brings her things back to the Jeep. She’s startled to find the man relatively close behind her when she emerges from the back of the vehicle again.

Seeing the brief flash of alarm in her eyes, he shuffles backward. “Shit, sorry. Again. I just wanted to say thank you for saving my sorry ass.” He extends his hand to shake hers and Betty grips it in her own.

“Anytime,” she answers.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.” He smirks a little before messing with his hair again and returning to his bike. Betty watches him kick into gear, turn back briefly to wave goodbye, and pull back onto the road.

When she returns to the driver's seat, she turns the stereo volume all the way up.

* * *

One of the twins is screaming.

One of the twins is _always_ screaming.

Betty loves being an aunt, she really does. She loves it a little less when Polly calls in a favor twenty minutes before needing to go to a work event with her husband, knowing her little sister is powerless to say no.

(She’s not a pushover, she’s not. Betty is, to an immense fault, a people-pleaser. She knows this about herself. But she doesn’t know it enough to grow a spine and tell her sister to hire an actual babysitter instead of constantly relying on her.)

Ideally, the walk from Polly and Jason’s building down to the park, two loops through the park, and the walk back should have tired out the ten-month-olds. All it’s done, though, is successfully tire Betty out. The twins seemed to enjoy the outing all the way up until they reached the last two blocks and then it’s just a chorus of screams and cries all the way to the steps of the apartment.

To top it all off, the stroller wheel is stuck.

Doing her best to breathe deeply and keep her wits about her, Betty crouches to check the stuck wheel.

Scratch that. The wheel is broken.

“Fucking _hell.”_

“Careful,” says a teasing voice from somewhere above her head. “I hear this is the prime age to soak in all the good swears.”

Cursing the fancy stroller, her sister, her brother-in-law’s sister for _buying_ the fancy stroller, and whoever the fuck is standing behind her and choosing _this exact moment_ to push her buttons, Betty launches herself into a standing position.

“How _dare—_ ” she stops. Attached to the voice is a man with a wry smile, beautiful eyes, and incredibly sharp cheekbones.

“Couldn’t resist,” he says. “I accidentally taught my little sister to say _asshole_ when she was three. Do you need a hand?”

She’s blushing, she thinks. Is she blushing? Is she _speaking?_ Has she frozen in place after realizing she’s in grungy leggings and covered in baby spit-up while face to face with an undeniably gorgeous guy?

Betty regains the power of speech after a few unfortunate seconds of stunned blinking.

(She hasn’t been on a date in months, let alone interacted with a stutter-inducingly attractive man recently. Sue her.)

“Honestly,” she sighs. “Yes, please. My sister seems to think I can handle these two as well as she can, except she has her goddamn husband around to help carry them.”

He grins again and Betty knows she must look—and sound—insane. “Let’s see,” he says, assessing the situation. “If we each hold one, I can probably get the stroller up the front steps with my free hand.”

Betty scoops up the screaming Dagwood to pepper kisses to his chubby cheek in an attempt to calm him. She shifts her weight around, trying to balance everything, and then gapes as the man effortlessly scoops Juniper up with one arm and starts lifting the enormous stroller with the other.

She rushes toward the entrance of the small building, figuring the least she can do is open the damn door for him. “You’re a lifesaver,” she breathes.

“All I’m missing is shining armor and the white horse to ride in on.” He winks at her as he passes through the door and Betty suddenly busies herself by smiling widely at the confused Juniper in his arms.

“Almost home, Junie,” she singsongs to the infant. “And then Auntie Betty is going to call your Auntie Cheryl and tell her there’d better be a warranty on her stupidly extravagant gift, yes she is.”

He straightens the polka-dotted sweater Juniper is swaddled in before saying, “They’re adorable.” Betty beams in agreement. They’re not her own kids, obviously, but she bursts with pride as though they were. She thrives on being an aunt, obsessed with making sure her niece and nephew grow up knowing just how much their family loves them; Betty is set on ensuring that Polly’s children and any future children of her own are overwhelmed with comfort and happiness in the way they never were. “Can’t even imagine handling two at once, though,” he huffs in a laugh at they pause at the elevator bank.

Broken from her reverie, Betty half-laughs, half-sighs. “My sister has the patience of a saint. I, on the other hand, do not. Even if I love them to pieces.”

“I know the feeling.”

Betty wishes she had anything else to say, something witty or flirtatious, but intelligent words still fail her. When the elevator dings, the man helps her maneuver the broken stroller into the small space and settles Juniper back into her seat before squeezing into a corner to allow space for Betty and Dagwood, who’s finally not crying.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and they work well in tandem to get everything and everyone to Polly and Jason’s front door. While she digs for the keys, Betty wonders if she should invite him in for a coffee or soda as a thank you.

Her mouth is open to extend the offer when Juniper lets out an ear-piercing shriek.

Betty sighs. “That’s my cue, I suppose.”

To his immense credit, the guy looks concerned. (And pretty adorable, with one hand shoved in his pants pocket and the other scratching at the back of his neck.) “Are you sure you don’t need a hand?”

“Please don’t worry about it. You’ve been a huge help already.”

“Fair enough.” With a glance at his watch, he straightens up quickly. “I actually need to get my shit together for the airport to catch my flight home.” At Betty’s questioning—and perhaps crestfallen—look, he explains further. “My sister lives downstairs. I’m only visiting.”

Before she can say any more, Dagwood starts to wail again.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, with a sympathetic tone. He heads back down the hall, but not before turning toward her once more with a winning smile. “Bye, you two. Be nice to your Auntie Betty.”  

* * *

_How to Make Peace with Being Alone;_

_When the Wallflower Becomes the Misanthrope;_

_You, Happier._

Jughead scoffs loudly at that last one.

Each and every title in the self-help section of bookstore seem to be mocking Jughead from the shelf. There’s a book for everything, it would appear: when you love too much, or too little, when you’re unsatisfied with your career, how to become a better man, father, husband, lover.

He wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a book delineating the personality differences between adults who learned to tie their shoes bunny-ear style versus around the tree, and how to change your life to accommodate those differences.

All he wanted to do was find a book suitable for alcoholics re-entering society, something positive but not too preachy for his father who is, in fact, due to re-enter society in a few days. Nothing feels quite right, least of all the books specifically aimed at recovering alcoholics.

(Jughead does not fail to notice the several feet of shelf devoted to books on how to “overcome” being the child of an alcoholic. He also does not fail to notice several of the books the therapist he went to approximately once tried to push on him at the end of the disastrous session. _Living with Antisocial Personality Disorder. How to Break Free of Your Shell._ That one about being a wallflower.

Needless to say, he’s read none of these books.)

With every minute spent fruitlessly scanning the corner shelves jam-packed with empty advice and pages that may as well be blank, Jughead loses his patience. He can tell his frustration is growing in how often the young blonde woman, who he thinks may be the owner, keeps glancing his way.

He’d come toward the end of the evening, hoping that arriving near closing would minimize his chances of having to interact with anyone else in the store. As a practiced people-watcher, Jughead knows most people have zero qualms about others paying attention to their own actions, however inane or bizarre. As the people-watcher himself, Jughead knows that there’s usually still _someone_ paying attention.

Pacing around the self-help shelves is not something Jughead wants to do while being watched.

He forgot, of course, that bookstores have employees and managers. And apparently beautiful blondes in pastel sweaters who clearly just want to help patrons find the perfect book.

On her third pass around the area, Jughead finally loses his temper and snaps, “For the love of god, just ask me if I need help finding anything and get it over with.”

To her credit, she doesn’t appear to be fazed by his rudeness. Then again, she does work in retail. Jughead can’t be the biggest asshole she’s ever dealt with. He’s probably not even the biggest asshole of the day.

“Can I help you find anything?” He laughs in exasperation but her tone is earnest and she seems genuinely interested in helping him.

“Is there a book for baggage-carrying sons to give their estranged fathers when they finally get out of rehab after nearly drinking themselves to death?”

She smiles a small, soft smile and Jughead inexplicably warms to her. “I don’t think we have that exact instruction manual. I take it the basic addiction recovery books aren’t going to cut it?” Jughead nods and the woman takes that as a positive enough sign to move closer to him.

“When’s he getting out?” she asks softly. Her presence is calming, as though the inhale that tells him she smells faintly of coffee and old paper was all his heart needed to stop his pulse from racing at breakneck speed.

Still, Jughead breathes evenly a few more times before he can bring himself to answer. “Day after tomorrow. He hasn’t seen me or my kid sister in nearly eight years. Didn’t stop him from calling to ask for a ride.” He laughs hollowly but stops when she lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, just a few inches from where his own hand is anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck.

“So it’s less a book of advice, and more a _fuck you_ wrapped in a platitude?”

The laugh—this one genuine—rumbles through him before he stops to give it any thought. “That’s pretty damn spot on actually.”

“Give me a minute,” she says before disappearing down an aisle. She’s back in a flash and Jughead can’t help but watch the way her ponytail swings and catches the light. “ _The Last Lecture.”_ She places the small book in his hands.

Jughead’s read it; contrary to what all his friends, and that one therapist, believe, he doesn’t actually live under a rock. He’s fairly sure he knows where she’s going with this, but looks at her expectantly, wanting to hear it in her own words.

“If he’s any good at reading between the lines, this will be a good way to tell him he should’ve done better on the first round. But that he has a chance to fix it now if he wants to. Or,” she amends. “If you want him to.”

In just a few moments, Jughead has gone from angry to defeated to choked up. He’s struck with the urge to hug her, this woman who’s somehow managed to capture exactly what he needed without him being able to articulate it.

“Damn,” he says. “You should do this for a living.”

Her laugh lights up the whole store.

Jughead follows her back to the front counter, reaching for his wallet. Her hand is on his arm again, stopping him. “Don’t,” she tells him. “It’s on me.” He can tell it would be useless to argue and shrugs his acquiescence.

“Thank you,” he says. “Really.”

All she does in response is smile at him again, which is more than enough. He tucks the book under his arm and turns to the door. As the bell chimes above his head, he hears her calling after him.

“Good luck!”

* * *

Offering to walk Jellybean down the aisle at her wedding had been Jughead’s idea.

Suggesting Jughead take ballroom lessons for the father-daughter dance had been _all_ Archie.

Standing in for their father hadn’t even been a question, both Jughead and Jellybean knew that was just how things would shake out. For both their sake, though, he made a show out of properly offering to uphold the tradition.

They both cried during that conversation and Jughead is under no pretense that they’ll both sob their way through the walk down the aisle and the dance. Jughead had banked on the mood at least being lightened by his complete inability to hold a beat, let alone dance properly to one.

Enter: Archie Andrews and one of his patented, harebrained ideas.

Archie’s true intentions were made abundantly clear, however, once Jughead was unceremoniously dragged through the front door of the dance studio. The owner is a petite, feisty brunette who looks like she would happily eat him _and_ Archie alive given the chance. Archie is working his charm in a flash and Jughead overhears snippets that involve a convoluted story of seeing the studio flyer at his gym and thinking it’s an “art form often ignored by men,” and it’s all he can do not to laugh openly and march right back out the door.

Until he sees the other instructor they’ll be working with.

She comes through a door to his left, preceded by a gaggle of middle schoolers in leotards and pristine buns. Her own hair is drawn back in a tight ponytail, the golden strands swishing as she cuts through the swarm to grab a pair of high-heeled dance shoes from behind the counter where Archie is still shamelessly flirting.

The blonde takes in the situation, staring Jughead down as he unintentionally drags his eyes from the strappy shoe she’s buckling all the way up her absurdly long legs to where the pink tights meet the black material of her very short shorts.

Overall, she looks less lethal than the other woman, but she’s full of righteous fury after his leering. He feels like an ass and swallows hard before opening his mouth to apologize profusely.

She doesn’t let him get that far. “Are you the groom, the unwitting friend, or the second obnoxious flirt?”

Fair, he thinks. Archie is not exactly giving them a great collective first impression.

(Also fair, because this woman is gorgeous and Jughead is now _much_ more interested in learning how to waltz.)

“I claim no responsibility for him,” Jughead jerks his head to where the brunette is giggling resting her hand flirtatiously on Archie’s chest. “But, uh, none of the above actually. My little sister is getting married and I’m giving her away. Shockingly, it was my friend’s idea to make me learn to dance.”

Instantly, she softens. A wide smile lights up her whole face, making the green in her eyes sparkle. “That’s great,” she exclaims. “I’m Betty!” She extends a hand to shake his and Jughead sees that her nails are painted a pink nearly identical to the color of her tights.

She’s clad mostly in black with the shorts and leotard, but her lips are also a muted pink. Somehow the pink suits her best, though the black is incredibly flattering to her lean dancer’s muscles. Jughead remembers how much Jellybean loved to wear _anything_ in “ballet pink” for the three years she took lessons before deciding she was too cool for anything besides wearing all black and playing the drums.

“Jughead,” he introduces himself. “Archie is the shameless flirt over there.”

“Oh good,” she mutters. “He and Ronnie will be a distracting match made in heaven. Go ahead into the studio behind you, I’ll wrangle them.” Betty quite literally sashays away, hip-checking the girl he now knows as Ronnie, to get her attention.

Jughead tries very hard to not stare at the sway of her hips.

As it turns out, ballroom dancing is hard. Really, really hard.

Jughead has neither the athleticism nor the balance that Archie does from years of football, so he’s left apologizing to Betty for stepping on her toes while Archie and Veronica dance circles around them.

It’s only a little humiliating.

“It’s okay, Jug,” Betty promises him for what feels like the thousandth time. “I doubt your sister is expecting you to foxtrot her around the dance floor. Let’s just focus on you not squashing her wedding shoes.”

He’s not so concerned about the dance with Jelly anymore, though. Once Betty successfully taught him how to find the count in their chosen song—Brown-Eyed Girl, Jughead’s joking suggestion during the tear-filled conversation that Jellybean ran with—he feels much more confident.

Jughead’s main worry is looking like an absolute, incompetent fool after three weeks of lessons with Betty. He can’t help but be distracted by the lilt of her laugh, the way she bites her lip to keep from correcting him too many times, and all the stories of her academy days with Veronica she shares so Jughead focuses on something other than his own two feet.

He’s spent so much time staring directly into Betty’s eyes lately (“Jughead, staring is acceptable in this instance. If you don’t look at me you’re going to trip or get dizzy!”) that he feels like he’s known her forever.

If he’s being honest, he _wants_ to know her forever.

On their last lesson before Jellybean’s wedding, he feels foolish for getting his hopes up. As he’s tying his shoes, Jughead overhears Betty say something about an upcoming move and asks dumbly, “Wait, you’re leaving?”

Betty flushes while Veronica positively bursts, “Our Bettykins got an offer to lead the jazz department at a performing arts high school in Chicago. She’s off in just a couple weeks.”

Jughead finds it more difficult than usual to stay focused during the lesson, not just because Veronica and Archie are in the corner kissing instead of waltzing. At the end of the hour, he hugs Betty tight before thanking her for everything.

“This has been surprisingly fun,” he smiles. “I’ve had a really great time.”

“Me too,” Betty replies softly. “I’ll miss you guys.”

She kisses his cheek in the parking lot before they part ways, each wishing the other luck. When Jughead gets home, he finds the faint outline of her lipstick on his skin.

(He and Jellybean, predictably, cry the whole way through their dance. His little sister is a vision and she whispers in his ear as Van Morrison fades out, “Thanks for not stepping on my feet.”)

* * *

Betty Cooper is uncomfortable.

Jughead can _tell_ she’s uncomfortable because he’s been paying attention to her since the moment he appeared at the doorstep of Archie’s dorm suite on Friday afternoon.

Betty and her roommate Veronica are two more of the group of five Archie lives among for his junior year of college and, though Jughead usually hates to visit Archie on campus, Betty’s presence is the only reason he’s still sane by 10pm on Saturday.

The tight black skirt and midriff-baring silk top—while looking unfairly good on the girl’s gentle curves—are clearly something out of Veronica’s closet and therefore something Betty doesn’t want to be wearing. In some sort of silent conversation, Veronica arches an eyebrow at Betty before taking her hand to twirl her in the center of the suite’s shared living room. “Boys, please tell Betty she looks hot and should not change back into her jeans.”

Archie wolf-whistles good naturedly to his roommate, while Reggie and Moose clap in approval. Jughead finds himself swallowing hard when Betty’s pinkened face turns to him, hopeful and expectant. He wants to tell her that she looks beautiful in this outfit, but that he also found her beautiful in the polka dot leggings and oversized hoodie she answered the door in on Friday, that she’d probably look gorgeous wearing a trashbag or a muumuu, or nothing at all.

He finds it hot that she spent Friday night doing the reading for her Shakespearean comedies class and that she threw a book at Reggie’s head when he made fun of her for it. It’s hot that her knowledge of Hitchcock films rivals his own, that even though she’s a journalism major to appease her parents she wants to go to law school to become a public defender in low-income areas, that she always smells faintly of coffee.

Jughead has known Betty Cooper for just over 24 hours and he’s pretty sure he would suffer through sleeping on Archie’s shitty futon every single weekend of the semester if it meant spending more time with her.

(The way she’s been looking at him thinks that maybe Betty wouldn’t mind him sleeping on Archie’s shitty futon to spend more time with her.)

“You look great, Betts.” He chokes a little on her name and it comes out as a nickname, which she blushes even more at. There’s a good chance Jughead himself is blushing now.

No one calls him on it, but Veronica directs her arched eyebrow at him right before demanding they all take tequila shots. “No wimps tonight. That means you, flannel king. Same for Betty.”

He rolls his eyes, but takes the shot glass when it’s handed to him. He’s not so scarred from his dad’s tendency to drink well beyond his limit that he won’t drink at all, but Jughead prefers to avoid liquor altogether. But he will take a single shot if it gets the formidable Veronica Lodge off his back.

And if it gives him an excuse to press close against Betty as Veronica gathers them all into a circle.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, leaning closer to her ear, “You can steal my flannel once we head out. Two more shots and Veronica won’t care enough to notice.” Betty giggles her thanks in response and doesn’t break eye contact with him while throwing back her tequila.

His own burns down the back of his throat, but isn’t wholly unpleasant given the circumstances.  

The night bears on and some kind of switch flips in Jughead at the sight of Betty shrugging on his flannel during the walk from the dorm to the bar just off campus. Betty, freshly of legal age, is still excited to present her ID at the door while the rest of their group shuffles quickly through the entrance, the novelty long since worn off.

(The shot has loosened him up and Jughead places his hand at the small of Betty’s back, feeling the familiar worn fabric, and tells her, “Don’t worry, Cooper. I’ll always card you if it makes you happy.”)

It’s the most relaxed Jughead has felt in ages, casually nursing a beer and sitting at a table full of people whose company he’s grown to enjoy. For as much as Jughead begrudges Archie for insisting that Jughead visit him at school, the trips have certainly expanded Jughead’s social circle and increased his tolerance for people other than Archie and his own sister. Parties were never his scene in the way they were Archie’s, but he understands the attraction of quieter dive bars, has even come to have fun in them since turning twenty-one.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Betty leans against him in between the impromptu dance breaks Veronica tugs her into the crowd for. She tries to give him his flannel back, her next few drinks evidently boosting her confidence, and his refusal catches in his throat.

“Keep it,” he insists. “Just in case you want it later.” Her ponytail has loosened from the dancing and she looks adorably flushed, biting her lip while watching Jughead carefully and tying the shirt around her waist. He tries really hard not to read into it, especially after overhearing Veronica pointing out prospective guys to her as he’s returning with another beer.

“That one in red by the pool table is cute,” Veronica shouts in a stage-whisper over the loud music. “Go flirt with him!” When Betty shakes her head no—to Jughead’s entirely unearned relief, it’s not like he has _any_ kind of claim, but thought of Betty hitting on another guy makes him nauseous—Veronica sips at her drink with narrowed eyes. “You need another night of letting loose, B. Go flirt or make out or have a one night stand. We’re only this young once.”  

The reality of the situation sits heavy in his chest: for as much as they’re hitting it off and as much as Betty keeps smiling at him in that enigmatic, tipsy way, Jughead goes back to his own campus tomorrow. Nothing is likely to happen between now and then that leaves enough of an impression that will leave someone as incredible as Betty Cooper willing to wait for someone like him.

He takes another swig of his beer and spins on the barstool to insert himself into whatever conversation the guys are having. Moose is monologuing about a girl he keeps bumping into at the gym and Jughead manufactures interest in the topic.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Betty finish her drink and head off to dance with Veronica again. It hurts more than he’d care to admit.

It hurts to watch guy after guy try to dance with her, to see her steadfastly ignore him when she and Veronica come back to their table, to watch Reggie and Moose and Archie be assertive and strike up conversations with other girls.

It hurts to fish through Archie’s jacket pocket for the dorm key so Jughead can walk back—alone—and go to bed. He makes his patented Irish goodbye and exits the bar before anyone can stop him.

He supposes it figures that he enjoyed himself just enough for the bubble to burst and leave him feeling sorry for himself and wishing he hadn’t bothered. He’s too wired and frustrated to fall asleep, which is fine considering he’ll be woken up when everyone returns later that night. Jughead is on his fourth try of a tricky level of Tetris when he notices the door handle jiggle several times and then hears Betty swearing outside the door.

He’s about to get up when the door swings open and a relatively drunk Betty Cooper looks delighted to see him. “Juggie!” she yells. “You left the bar and didn’t say goodbye. That was mean!”

Standing now, Jughead shuts and locks the door behind her before steadying her shoulders as she attempts to pull off a complicated flamingo-esque maneuver to remove one of her heeled boots. Logic tells him that it’s just the liquor in her system, but a large part of him is stupidly happy she noticed he left.

Noticed so much, in fact, that she left to come find him.

She’s still wearing his flannel and the blue fabric dwarfs her slightly, but he can still see the sliver of skin exposed by her short top. He so wishes she were sober so he could run his fingers along that skin to see if he touch would result in gooseflesh.

Betty doesn’t have the same qualms about her inebriation, though, and flops down on the futon, pulling Jughead with her so he’s tucked closely into her side. She is impossibly near him as she turns as demands, “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

Oh, he thinks. Is this a drunk girl thing to be asking, or a Betty thing? “I, uh,” he stammers, getting lost in the smudge of eyeliner framing her sparkling eyes. “I just wasn’t feeling it anymore and everyone seemed caught up, so I figured I’d see you all back here.”

She frowns. “You still should have said something.”

“Next time.”

“Will there?” she asks, turning to face him directly. “Be a next time?”

Jughead doesn’t know. A next time he visits Archie, sure. A next time he’s struck dumb by her, almost definitely. But a next time for whatever this is?

He doesn’t get to finish his thought because then he actually _is_ struck dumb by Betty crawling into his lap and kissing him soundly.

Oh. _Oh._

She’s kissing him hard and shifting around to settle against his chest and something inside him is purring in outrageous contentment. When he slips his hands under the flannel and around her waist, he feels goosebumps.

Jughead smiles into the kiss, which Betty takes as indication to kiss him harder. Her hands twist into his hair, tugging harshly, and he bites against her bottom lip in surprise. The resulting whimper rocks through him.

Shit. Right. She’s drunk. Not good. Not good at _all._

In a swift movement, Jughead pushes back from her and scrambles off the futon. He’s babbling some sort of incoherent apologetic nonsense and is digging for a bottle of water from the fridge when he hears another whimper from Betty, this one very different from the one of pleasure he’d elicited just moments before.

When he turns in alarm, Betty’s face is crumpled in tears.

While he’s familiar with the concept of a crying drunk girl, when confronted with it in person, Jughead is at a total loss.

“Hey, Betts, shhh, what’s the matter?” He kneels next to her, proffering the water and rubbing her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

“You don’t want to kiss me,” she wails.

Well, fuck.

“No, that’s not it at all,” he answers quickly. “Trust me. Like, not at _all._ I very much want to kiss you. A lot. I’ve want to do nothing _but_ kiss you since you answered the door yesterday.” She’s still crying but looks up sharply, her face a mix of hope and confusion. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to kiss you when you’re this drunk.”

Through her tears, Betty nods and yanks him to her again. Once he’s sitting next to her, she places herself under his arm and curls into his side before taking the water. “Okay,” she whispers. “Thank you, Juggie.”

He fruitlessly diverts his attention back to Tetris while Betty drinks the water and leans heavier against him. When her breathing evens out, he slips his arm out from behind her and lays her down fully. The sight of her fast asleep, in his shirt, lips somewhat kiss-swollen, is enough to bowl him over.

Who would’ve guessed, he thinks before stealing Archie’s comforter and making himself a bed on the floor.

Jughead falls asleep and dreams of Betty in her polka dots and ponytail.

He wakes up thinking of how warm her skin felt under his hands. The echo of the noise she made reverberates through his mind. His giddy smile slips a bit when he hears Betty from the hall bathroom.

“Hey V? Did ...did I make out with someone last night?”

Of course.  

Jughead briefly considers flinging himself out the window as he hears the conversation carry on, wishing desperately for a vat of coffee and to retroactively stop everything last night from happening.

“Ooo, intrigue! Not that I saw. Why? _Ohmygod,_ do you have a hickey or something? Please tell me you have a hickey.”

“No!” The indignation is clear in Betty’s voice and the lizard part of his half-conscious brain tells Jughead that he should have given her a hickey, that he _wants_ to give Betty a hickey.

“Well then how do you know you made out with someone?”

“It just feels like someone bit my lip.”

“Feisty! Look at you go, girl.”

Archie’s groans join the fray. “Will you two please either shut the hell up or bring me a gallon of water?”

Jughead sighs, sitting up and stretching out the kinks in his neck from sleeping on the floor. “That’s what you get for drinking tequila all night, you dumbass.”

When he emerges from Archie’s room to turn on the coffee pot, he’s greeted by the sight of a sleep-rumpled Betty on the futon. She’s showered and changed into sweatpants but is still wearing his flannel.

Death would be easier.  

“Jughead!” Veronica points toward him and he freezes, panicked. “Did you see Betty with anyone at the bar?”

It takes a full five seconds for his heart to leave his throat. “No one besides our group.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Betty, do you remember it being a _good_ kiss, at least?”

Coffee. He is staring resolutely at the coffee maker. He is not at all waiting on pins and needles to hear what Betty thought of their kiss.

“It must have been,” Betty sighs. “I remember being really excited about it.”

Well, he supposes. That’s better than nothing.

(Betty did _cry_ because she thought Jughead didn’t want to kiss her. She may have been drunk, but that has to count for something. ...Right?)

“Guess it’ll remain a mystery!” chirps Veronica. “Maybe check the missed connections facebook page later. Until then, let’s drink coffee and then go eat our weight in eggs and bacon at the dining hall.”

This Jughead can get on board with. “Coffee will be ready in a few. If Archie doesn’t surface by the time we’re done, I’m still coming with you for bottomless bacon.” The coffee drips slowly into the pot and he watches it with an intensity only someone purposely avoiding something can muster. It’s probably not worth telling Betty, he reasons with himself. He’s leaving later today and by the time he comes back to visit, last night will be a blip on her radar. Sure, he’ll probably think about that kiss until the end of his goddamn days, but what’s another log on his fire of angst. It’ll just be more fodder for the painfully overwrought protagonist of his future novel.

It’s fine. Jughead will be fine if Betty doesn’t know they kissed. They’ll both be fine.

He pours coffee into mugs and brings one to where Betty is sprawled out on the futon before settling into the opposite corner to sip on his own. Running rampant, Jughead’s mind conjures up the image of Betty in his lap when he was in the same spot only hours prior.

Made evident by the way her body goes stock still, Jughead isn’t the only who noticed the parallel.

Frozen with her coffee halfway to her mouth, Betty stares unblinkingly at him. The expression on her face is impossible to read, but he knows his own must be a mixture of dread and humiliation. Betty glances surreptitiously to where Veronica is immersed in something on her phone before looking to Jughead and mouthing, _Did we?_

Oh god, he wants to die. Really and truly.

He nods once, short and to the point. Here’s hoping the miniscule action can get across the message of, _Yes we did, let’s please never discuss this because the look on your face tells me you probably regret the entire thing._

Betty, calm as can be, sets her coffee down, removes his own from his hand and sets it down too, then grabs his wrist and yanks him behind her as she walks down the hall to her room.

As soon as the door shuts, he’s rambling. “I’m really sorry, I wasn’t going to say anything since it seemed like you didn’t remember. I swear to god, nothing happened, I knew you were drunk so I stopped it and made you drink water and then you fell asleep and I’m really, really sorry. I’m literally leaving in, like, less than four hours and then you can continue on pretending like you have no idea what happened and—”

“Jughead!”

He stops. Blinks.

Betty stares at him, smiling. “Just shut up for a second, okay?” He nods. He nods and then Betty Cooper is pushing him against her door and kissing him again and her lips taste like fruity chapstick and if the floor swallowed him whole right now, he could die happy.

She sinks against him and Jughead wraps his arms around her waist, toying with the edges of his flannel where they rest against her skin. They keep kissing like this, soft and unhurried, and he holds her closer to him still, relishing in the warmth of her body against his. When they part, Betty cups his face in her hand, gently stroking her thumb across his cheekbone.

“Don’t you dare leave without saying goodbye later, okay?”    

.

.

.

**_fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing. 
> 
> Pretty, pretty please comment if you did. I thrive on coffee and comment emails from ao3.


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